Daughter
by MissEtoile
Summary: This is my first Gilmore Girls story. I don't really know where I'm going with it, but I do know that it'll be 1) about Tristan and Rory, 2) annoying sappy, and 3) possibly incoherent. Suggestions and feedback will be more than welcome.
1. Prologue

Is a disclaimer really necessary?  
Okay, okay. Well, I own nothing save for any characters I may or may not wind up creating.  
  
  
Prologue  
  
  
When my mother died, she had left me virtually penniless. Luckily, I was old enough to adequately support myself. Of course, the only way I could've done this was by dropping out of college, and I did that, partially because I didn't like it there anyway and finally had a valid excuse for quitting. I knew my mother would disapprove, but since I knew she had also dropped out when she was my age, I thought nothing of it, though her circumstances were quite different from mine.  
  
I rented a tiny bedroom from a house in Queens, because rent was much cheaper there. My landlady was old and wrinkled. She had two old and wrinkled cats that hissed at me whenever I walked past. The lady liked me, though, somewhat… enough not to evict me for being late in rent for the first couple of months, when I had to get back on my feet.   
  
Because I was persuasive, and because economic times were good, I was hired pretty quickly by a trendy restaurant in Manhattan. I never really thought about what I would do for the rest of my life, though. Despite the tediousness of being a waitress, I didn't really consider other career options. I guess I just figured I would live in that tiny room with that old landlady and her two old cats and work at that restaurant. I would make an honest, modest living. Never did it cross my mind that I might want to get married one day, or have children, or raise children.   
  
Of course, as a child, I was full of dreams. Fantasies, really. When my mother was diagnosed with leukemia, I was in high school, and while the news came as a shock to me, my dreams persisted. Most cases of leukemia occur in children, but my mother's was one of more severity. I'm not sure why, but I kept on assuming that she would be okay, that we would both be okay. As time went by, I dissolved myself in these childishly optimistic assumptions, refusing to snap out of them till the doctor called and told me that the remission hadn't been successful. I soon found out that my bone marrow didn't match that of my mother, and so hopes of her survival were small. From then on, I became more like I am now: realistic, perhaps even a little painfully so.  
  
I faced her death as well as anyone could've expected. I was neither overly cold nor overly sentimental. I was accepting. I cried. I was okay, after awhile. I moved on.  
  
Although she didn't have much to leave me, I refused to be disappointed, for she had provided me with everything I really needed, for nineteen years. I never let myself forget that it was hard for her.  
  
She had entrusted me with a small box, however. Unfortunately, the key was lost, and the lid was locked. I knew it was hollow, because I had shaken it to speculate its contents. I could not ask her what was in it, for when she told me about it, she was practically incoherent, and I was too mournful to think of such a question. So the box lay, disregarded, on the top shelf of my closet, collecting dust.   
  
And now… Oh, God. I'm a complete cliché.  
  
But maybe I should start at the beginning.  



	2. Chapter 1

Um, my verb tenses suck. A lot. Please try to ignore them. 

This is a short chapter because I'm lazy. 

Chapter 1 

I scrutinized myself in the mirror. Colored blonde hair in a braid, naturally blue eyes. Crisp white shirt buttoned all the way to the top, black skirt that cut off at the knee. No jewelry. Apron. 

You'd think that the blonde hair and blue eyes part would make me at least a little bit noticeable to men, but that's not the case. My mom told me once it was because I "carried myself in oblivion," whatever that meant. 

That's why I was so surprised when a young man at a table I was waiting asked me about my hours. 

"Why?" I had asked, incredulously. I'm figuring that didn't do much for my confidence. Maybe that's what my mom had tried to say. Perhaps she meant that I never looked outside my little bubble, so whenever anyone tried to speak to me, it came as a surprise because my bubble had been invaded. 

"Just wondering," he shrugged, trying to seem cool and calm as his friends laughed. 

They must be mere teenagers. 

I wasn't sure what to say. Am I supposed to be offended in this situation? Should I be flattered? 

"Everyday from eight to three and five to ten. I'm off on Wednesdays." The words slipped from my lips. 

The boy smiled at me. That made me flustered, for some reason, so I just walked away, ignoring the loud teasing that failed to escape my ears. 

That's how I first met Jake. 

We started seeing each other for a little while after that. It wasn't really anything serious, but we had reached the point where we didn't date anyone else and knew quite a bit about reach other. 

Jake was a political science student in his second year at Columbia University. He was only nineteen--a year younger than me. Taking into consideration that we had next to nothing in common, it was a surprise that we never ran out of things to talk about. He was smart, witty, and so full of life that it was almost disgusting. He embodied a lot of what I think I could've been, had my family situation been different. It also made me wonder what he could've seen in me, a college dropout who has neither a mother nor father, especially since he came from such a perfect family. 

"I told my mom about you," he mentions casually to me over a cup of coffee. 

My head jerks up from my Starbucks cappuccino. "Huh?" I ask, because I haven't really been paying attention. 

"My mom. I talked to her about you," he explains patiently. I'm very lucky that he has so much patience. I drift off a lot. IA lot./I 

Oh yeah. Jake's mom. The cancer research scientist. Barely into her forties and already prominent in the field. Graduated in the top five percent of her class from Harvard and then went on to Johns Hopkins for graduate studies. Sounded more intimidating than motherly, but I'm usually proven wrong anyway. 

"Anyway," Jake continues cheerily, "I said that if you're free, I could bring you to meet her and my dad for Thanksgiving." 

I pause. Why wouldn't I be free? I'm always free. 

"You have plans already?" 

He isn't very good at reading my thoughts. 

"No," I manage. "I'd be happy to." I smile at him. 

"Great." He grins back and takes a large gulp of his black coffee. His grin then disappears. 

"Hot?" I ask. 

"Yes. . . and Ibitter/I!" He exclaims, reaching for a napkin. "Christ, I must've been delusional when I ordered this." 

I laugh at him, because he makes me laugh. 


End file.
